ashes on my tongue and terror on my lips
by finaljoy
Summary: Ichabod had experienced a lot of unpleasant things in his life. Kidnapping, especially the second time around, shouldn't have been so disconcerting. Maybe it was because this time, he was held by witches, or that they planned on eating his soul. Or maybe it was because he was going absolutely off his head.


_AN This was written for the lovely **Victoria LeRoux, **as part of the Spooky Story Swap on The Beta Branch. I had so much fun writing this, because ME AND SPOOPY HOLLOW, MAN. But also, I got to indulge in my sudden craving for creepy/spooky stuff as well as write for Ichabod and Abbie for the first time. It was pretty sweet all around._

_ALSO SPOOKY STUFF ON HALLOWEEN CAN I GET AN AMEN?_

* * *

><p>Ichabod had experienced a lot of strange and unpleasant things during his whole stopping-the-apocalypse adventures. He'd had the sin ripped from his blood, been stung by scorpions, nearly died from an age old pox, sparred with Death, among other things. Kidnapping, especially the second time around, shouldn't have been so disconcerting.<p>

But it was.

Maybe it had to do with the fact that he wasn't being held hostage by monsters or their minions, but just people, or that these people were girls that had barely become women. Or maybe it had to do with the fact that they had drugged him, hidden him away underground, and were acting like mutilation was a reasonable past-time.

Ichabod tried straining at the cords binding his wrists, but his hands were jerky and strange and the world seemed to get teetering back and forth and _back_ and _forth_ and _back forth back forth—_

Someone entered the chamber he was being held in, or at least, he thought he heard someone walk in, because he kept hearing _things_ and he couldn't see. He tried to turn his head toward the sound, but it resulted in more of a pathetic flopping gesture. He grimaced and forced his head upright, despising the soft whisper of laughter coming from the darkness.

"What do you want with me?" he asked, or rather garbled, the words coming out thick and awkward. He prayed his voice didn't betray the churning anxiety in his stomach.

"Hi there," the person said, voice perversely perky. She sounded so, so young. "Glad to see you can talk, Mags said that it would take another half hour, at _least._ Then again, that might have just been for you to be intelligible."

"Why—am—I—here," Ichabod said, forcing the words to be slow and steady, because he needed to know what was happening, who she was, what exactly they had dosed him with to make him feel like bugs were crawling _all over his skin._

"Okay, so, long story short, we _really _appreciate what you're doing here, really, we do, but we've kind of decided…well, it would make a whole lot more sense to bestow your immortality on someone more...weaponized." At that, her voice turned into a horribly delighted whisper that seemed to be pulled up out of her stomach and intent on settling to the floor. Ichabod tried to writhe back, because the words smelled _bad_, they smelled terrible enough to be felt and to be tasted and probably to be seen, had the place not been the color of pitch.

"My _immortality_—I don't have any—"

"Whoa, okay, okay, hold on hot rod, I _literally_ can't understand a thing you're saying," the girl said, coming a little closer. He grimaced as another stab of fear went through him, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to remember what it felt like, not going off his head, but all he felt was the sickening darkness rocking around him, jolting him up and down and trying to eat him whole. The girl gave a soft laugh, then tugged on his shirt. Ichabod struggled weakly, but then it was hanging open down to his navel.

"Alright, so this is gonna be a little cold, just hold on here…" the girl continued. Ichabod jumped when she touched his bare chest, something cool like paint on her fingers. He desperately wanted to give into the urge to squirm, because the _things_ on his skin were probably going to love it and crawl up further over his stomach and onto his chest and onto his _face,_ but his body was still refusing to respond correctly. Instead, Ichabod grit his teeth as the girl painted some sort of symbol on his sternum.

"How?" he managed, hoping she would understand.

"Mm? How're we gonna take your immortality? Well, since it's twined up in your being, we're going to extract it, and then, well, hm, closest thing I can say is consume it."

"_Consume_?"

"Relax, you'll probably be unconscious for that bit. Although, yeah, it's kind of weird, I know. But it's not like we're literally _eating _you, just ingesting a bit of your spirit. If it makes you feel better, you can still call me Hannibal the Cannibal," she laughed.

Ichabod stared at where he thought her face was. He may have been drugged out of his mind, but he was certain of two things—first, the modern concept of history lessonswere _dreadfully _inadequate if they taught that the Carthagian general Hannibal consumed other humans, barbaric though he may have been, and second, the girl's laugh sounded more than a little hysteric.

"Are you done?" another voice asked, this one older and a little more harsh. Ichabod jerked, body reacting before his mind caught up. The girl painting the symbols on him hissed, and wiped some paint off his chest.

"Almost. Is Mags ready?"

"I'm here," a third woman said, and he felt her stalk around him, restless as she assessed the scene before her. He could just imagine her, wickedly thin, with large, inhuman eyes that could see in the wretched darkness. They all probably looked that way, their pupils stretched wide to steal any remains of light.

"Okay, then let's start," the first girl, _witch_, said, moving away from Ichabod. There was a clatter and a gasp, and the second witch grumbled, "Be _careful_, Laura. Knock this over, and we'll all go blind."

"Right, right, I know, _sorry_, I just—it's dark, okay? Seeing at night spells don't work as well when you're _underground_," she said, moving back. Ichabod turned his head from side to side, as if he could stare them into retreat.

"Witness," the oldest witch said, voice like moth wings in the dark. "Your work is noble, of that there is no doubt, but there are some cases where we _must_ sacrifice, for the greater good. You, for all of your God given gifts, are perhaps not the final instrument intended to save humanity," she whispered, like she was sorry, like she didn't _want_ to carve out his soul, but the words were curling up in the air in front of his face, tugging on his breath, pulling the life out of his chest.

"You may be able to live for forever, but against Death, you are just a man. _We_ can help, we can take your immortality and turn it into something _more._ Death will be brought to his knees, once we rob him of the power over one of us."

"No—that's not—how can—"

"Hush, now," the middle witch said, setting a hand on his face. He could feel her claws slide against his skin. Power seemed to thrum through them, making his bones rattle and putting his teeth on edge. "Hush, hush hush hush, it'll be fine now. Just stay still, just let it happen, let us _eat you."_

Ichabod jerked again, trying to get himself free, and for a moment he thought he might even be able to sit upright, but then he was falling back down, body not heeding what he was telling it to do, not getting him up and out of there and _away from death._

He recoiled as another hand reached out, now snatching at him from the darkness. His mind urged him to defend himself, but his body remained noncompliant, despite how his ragged breath tore at his throat.

"This might hurt," the youngest, Laura, said. "Stealing your immortality isn't exactly a walk in the park."

Ichabod wanted to protest, to say that there was some type of mistake, he wasn't _really_ immortal, after all—but instead of listening she pressed her hand to the drying symbol on his chest, making his skin truly _crawl_ now, crawl and sting and seem to melt. He gasped, a sound of pain coming from him, and the witches conversed amongst themselves, voice chattering, skittering across his ears, ceasing to be words but just _sounds_, sighs and clicks and hisses.

He was going to die. They were going to tear out his figuratively immortal soul and they were going to eat it in hopes of prevailing against the Horseman Death. He, Ichabod Crane, was going to _die _if he did not get up and get out of there _now._

Ichabod suddenly found himself lurching to his feet, knocking against the witches, their skin rough and cold against his. He staggered past them, and crashed into a shelf. Recalling their exchange earlier, he lashed out, knocking a series of pots to the ground. A _hiss_ accompanied by a great shower of light filled the room, making the witches shriek and fall back. Ichabod staggered forward, using his hands to guide him along the wall to the opening. He barely felt the stonework, but at the same time it seemed to tear and bite at his hands, trying to rip pieces away. He stumbled forward, almost knocking himself off center when he hit the doorway with his shoulder.

He had to get away he had to get away he had to get away they were coming for him now, snarling and spitting at each other and saying _go get the immortal. _Ichabod raced down the hall, which was jolting and contorting underneath his feet, but he had to focus he had to think he had to get his hands free. Ichabod tore at the bindings with his teeth, and it tasted like dry and blood and not wanting to do it anymore and dirt but then it was gone and his hands were _free. _He felt along the walls again, moving quickly, more confident now that he hands were free, he was moving fast he was moving fast he may have been running but he also may have been crawling in circles, on his hands and knees and trying to find a way _out. _It was lighter now, light so that it wasn't so much pitch as bottom of a river and he felt like he was drowning but there was air in his lungs he just didn't know how to use it or the light as his hands materialized before his face, pale and thin and shaking and not much use. There was dirt under his nails and a ringing ringing _ringing_ no buzzing in his head and then there was a _found him!_ and hands grabbed at his clothes.

Ichabod shouted and lashed out, hand cracking against the witch's face, which he could see now, revealing the skeletal, green skinned monster with a heinous beak and _teeth teeth teeth_ and a tongue that looked like a spark of fire. She shrieked in outrage and took a handful of his clothes, grip too strong to be real, but maybe he was just weak, because he was falling down and he couldn't catch himself and then they were both knocking into the wet and dark stone wall.

It took Ichabod a second, but then he was stumbling away, and the witch was not and he prayed that she was dead because one dead witch was one he didn't have to deal with and he didn't think he could handle much more because terror terror _terror _was in him now and the ground was turning to black slime _blood_ and the walls heaving _in out in out in out _and the _sounds_ tearing at his face every few seconds.

He wasn't breathing anymore the black was just slithering into his mouth and over his tongue and down his throat and into his lungs and it was _poisoning _him it was killinghimhe needed to stop it he needed to stop and then it was coming back up it burned it was all over his legs he was going to die down there he was going to be found by the bugs and the witches and turned into another walking dead man, cursed and wretched and demented beyond all compare no witness was he he was pathetic and small and dying and _Crane!_

Ichabod wheeled at the sound of a good voice, and almost fell over as things wrapped themselves around his feet and ankles and legs and they were trying to swallow him up but he _needed_ to reach that good voice even if he had to be breathing dust and crawling on his stomach like a worm.

Hands were grabbing onto him again but they were not bad they were good they felt like comfort they didn't feel like ripping his soul out they dragged him up and held him steady and made him look into their face and _Leftenant_ and he was stumbling staggering again because there were things on his legs and hands and he had to get them away he had to keep them from her because they would turn on her and eat her alive and _Crane calm down hey_ and he tried _Leftenant we must leave_ but it only came out as mumbles and more black black black and it was spilling over his lips and spilling onto his skin and that terror was turning hard in his veins and making it hard to move he couldn't move she was going to die he was going to die they were going to die in the black and he fell down and he felt himself be swallowed up.

_hey crane hey wake up now yeah that's right up and at 'em._

Ichabod attempted to push himself into an upright position, but then he felt himself collapsing back, arms feeling like they had been alternatively turned to concrete and then wicker. He shot Abbie a fairly unamused look as she laughed and helped him upright, then turned to look where he was. The best he could tell, he was in some sort of room, though it had the distinct impression of occcultism, if the strange assortment of herbs, books, and vials with questionable contents were anything to go by. There were also three women, one standing, two sitting, all looking exceptionally worried. One of them, a woman of perhaps twenty and five years, was carefully dabbing at a cut and growing bruise on her forehead.

"Leftenant, what's going on?" he asked, as least he _meant_ to ask that, but it just sounded like someone gargling dirt. Surprisingly enough, it also felt that way.

"Wonder if he'll ever be able to say something clearly," one of them joked, and suddenly he was jerking back, grabbing Abbie and looking for the nearest weapon because _these_ were the witches that had tried to cut out his soul. He turned back to Abbie, who looked torn between mild amusement and irritation.

"Hold on Crane, yeah, hold on. These ladies have something they'd like to tell you."

"Leftenant, they tried to _eat my soul_," Ichabod spat, and this time it actually came out sounding like words.

"Eat your soul?" one of them asked, and he supposed that his was the infamous 'Mags', the one that had been chosen to take his alleged immortality. She was tall and looked very tired, the bags under her eyes very visible despite her mid-toned skin.

"Laura, what'd you tell him?"

"Nothing! I told him exactly what we'd do, just absorbing a bit of his essence, Bailey I swear." The girl, Laura, paused, then pursed her mouth to the side.

"...also I may have mentioned Hannibal."

"Are you _freaking kidding me_," the injured woman, Bailey, said, attempting to slap her forehead in exasperation, then reconsidering.

"Trust me, that's not his biggest worry. He has _no idea_ who that is."

"I am _well aware_ who Hannibal is," Ichabod bit out, feeling a little more reassured at Abbie's relaxed, if annoyed, tone. "His military feats—"

"See? No idea. _But,_ let's get this cleared up soon, so that I can get at _least_ three hours of sleep before I go in to work tomorrow."

"We…ah…we apologize for kidnapping you," Mags said, running a hand through her hair. "We were just…trying to help."

"To defeat the Horseman of Death, yes, I recall," Ichabod said stiffly, then turned to look at the others.

"We _totally_ did not mean to hurt you, in any way. It's just, if we reached out to you, then _they_ might find out, and—you were supposed to be sedated the whole time," Laura explained, spreading her hands out as if she could actually give him her side of the story. "Nothing was going to happen to you, you would…just be able to die afterward…though now we know you always could have."

"And that's not something you think you should have actually _consulted_ him over, first?" Abbie asked, rolling her eyes. Laura dropped her head, looking even more ashamed. She really did look young, perhaps seventeen, maybe so much as nineteen. Ichabod felt suddenly sorry that her life was already consumed with the conflict between good and evil. At least, not entirely violated and outraged.

"_Sedation_ is not what I would have called the…state I was in," Ichabod pointed out, still a little too upset to just let them go because of good intentions.

"Yeah, that's the thing I can't figure out!" Bailey said, straightening. "That spell should _not _have made you go nuts like that."

"I've been going over it, and we most certainly did not make a mistake in casting it," Mags said, shaking her head.

"Okay, here's a question—how did you guys even find _out _about Crane? And why did you think he was _immortal_?"

"We thought we had it on good authority," Bailey sighed, looking even more miserable. "I mean, if _he's_ not solid, then who is?"

"He? He who?"

"We got it from the Sin Eater, if you've ever heard of him," Mags explained. "He purges sins, he can tell when there's a lie, you know? So when a guy like that says that one of the Witnesses is immortal, and that the immortality can be _transferred_ from person to person, you're kind of going to trust him."

"The _Sin Eater_?" Abbie asked, voice holding all of the dark understanding and vague horror that Ichabod now felt. "As in Henry Parrish?"

"Yes, that's him!" Laura said, sitting up straighter. "He even gave us some of the ingredients."

"Yeah, well, you better double check those ingredients, because I _assure _you, that man is not the angel he appears to be."

"What?" Bailey asked, attempting to stand, and then sinking back into her chair with a wobble and a careful touch to her forehead. Laura obligingly stood up and approached one of the shelves for her. "One of the bottles he gave us was smashed when you—ah, when you escaped," Bailey continued, sounding sheepish. "But there's this…"

"Check the outside, spell ingredients often have runes on the containers."

There was a quiet moment where everyone held their breath, waiting for Laurato find something. Then she handed the bottle off to Mags, expression blank. Mags in turn swore when she looked at the bottle.

"What, what is it?" Bailey demanded, leaning over to look.

"There's a rune. It's small, I almost missed it, completely did, the first time around, but it—it changes the property of the oil. It wouldn't have just knocked him unconscious, it would have, well, taken in context, it made him hallucinate. That's what happened, right?"

"…Yes. At first, it was mild enough, but after a short while…things compounded," Ichabod admitted, recalling the way the room had gone from rocking back and forth to churning and filling him up with revolting black _something._

"Oh my gosh. Oh my gosh I am _so sorry,_" Mags said, putting her head in her hands. "We could have killed you."

"Oh no, he wouldn't have killed me," Ichabod said blackly. "It's abundantly clear that I am not to die, not yet at least."

"Then you could have been rendered unconscious, for eternity if we hadn't caught on to something being wrong, and counteracted it. You could have been caught in some nightmare world for forever!"

"Yes, well, then let's just be thankful that some sense was to be had."

"Okay. Glad we got this cleared up. You three, scram before I stop prioritizing my need for sleep over the fact that you just kidnapped my partner and tried to cut out part of his soul, as well as almost turned him into Tim Burton's Sleeping Beauty," Abbie said, jerking her thumb at the door. "You, Crane, are going home and you're going to _stay_ home like you were _supposed to_, rather than running around being an idiot and getting yourself kidnapped."

Ichabod sniffed in response, because ruffled as he might have felt, there was no way he could reasonably deny that his sudden addiction to 'Minibons' hadn't absolutely been the cause of his whole abduction.

"We're really, _really _sorry about this!" Laura piped up as they left. Ichabod glanced over her shoulder and gave a thin smile, because she really was young and sounded exceptionally guilty and he couldn't be a _complete_ boor about things.

"So, Henry," Abbie said, once they were a fair ways away from the witches (it seemed that they had locked him up in a subterranean level of an old house, and not, as it had appeared, a series of catacombs made of dirt and slime).

"Indeed. It seems that the Horseman War has become even more covert in his schemes."

"Crazy as it seems, clever son of a bitch nearly got us, too," Abbie noted. She sounded like she needed a few days' sleep, or possibly one of her beloved energy drinks. Then she blinked, and glanced at him. "I meant—uh, figuratively. About—"

"Yes, I understand what you meant. But it appears that we will just have to be even _more_ clever," he said, offering Abbie a determined, if exhausted smile. The smile she gave back promised literal hell for Moloch and his minions.


End file.
